


Sherlock Drabbles

by CelesteArius



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Guy Fawkes Day, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One Word Prompts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock's Birthday, coat sharing, violin lessons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:17:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteArius/pseuds/CelesteArius





	1. Coat

"Sherlock, I hope you do realize it is snowing." It was the first words John had said in nearly an hour. His breath clouded in front of him only to disappear amidst the swirling snow and wind. John was not dressed appropriately for this type of weather at all. His coat had been used to cover the dead body of a woman that Sherlock had said was merely 'another clue' as to the whereabouts of the murderer.

"Yes," was Sherlock's only reply. Of course he was fine with the snow and the wind. He, after all, never went anywhere without his coat, gloves and scarf. The blue of the scarf and the coattails blew in the wind from their perch on the roof.  _The killer will think we're on the streets,_ Sherlock had reasoned.  _It would be better to have a high vantage point._

John huffed, going back to rubbing his arms and walking in circles, hoping to heat up some. The tingle in his fingers wasn't a good sign. The temperature had dropped significantly when the sun fell, and now heavy snow clouds completely blocked the sky for miles. No moonlight or stars; only the light of a single street lamp lighting the lot below them.

"There he is, John," Sherlock said in a hushed whisper, crouching down low. "And coming right this way. Perfect. Like I thought, the message he sent to Peter Ivanov was encoded. Within this building is the basis of their entire cartel. Abandoned lot and diner, and with a new construction project right across the street. Hiding in plain sight, weren't we?"

John only half listened to Sherlock's little ramble.

"This was probably why he killed her, John," Sherlock realized. "Her husband was a construction worker. I bet he worked right over there." He pointed to the new office buildings being built, just across the badly lit lot from them. "She probably wondered too close to this place for her own good. Couldn't have been more than a few hours ago. The lunch she was bringing him hadn't molded yet."

"Yeah, that's great Sherlock," John grumbled. "Can't we just phone Greg and have him come with the police to take them down? I want to go home and get a warm cuppa by the fire."

"Greg? Who's Greg?"

John heaved another sigh. "Lestrade."

"Oh, right."

Still, Sherlock didn't move to get his phone, or move to get the criminal himself. John, fed up at this point, sat down on the cold roof and blew hot air into his hands, hoping to warm them up. If it came down to it, he wouldn't be able to fire his gun straight in these conditions.

And then, suddenly, something heavy and ridiculously warm settled all around him. His bemused mind caught the scent of whatever it was before he actually looked.  _Rain and snow, the clean smell of the hospital, a hint of cigarette smoke._  John looked up.  _Sherlock's coat._

"Sherlock-?" John began but he was cut off.

"You're cold," was Sherlock's simple answer. He was texting Lestrade their location as well as the details of the case. "It's my fault you don't have your coat, so take mine. I'll be fine with my scarf until Lestrade arrives."

Underneath the warm coat, John watched as Sherlock himself shivered in the cold, opting to disguise it had a mere shrug of his shoulders. John sighed, pulling the coat closer around him. He nuzzled his face into the soft fabric, drinking in the smell of the man he was so in love with.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely hummed his reply.

_Are you and John hurt? –GL_

_No, we're both fine. –SH._ Sherlock almost hit send, but with a glance at his partner, nuzzling into his coat with a dreamy look on his face, he added something.  _Bring coffee._

_Black, two sugars? –GL_

Sherlock smiled.

_No. How John likes it. Make sure it's warm. -SH_


	2. Withdrawal

"John."

"Hm?"

"I  _need_  some."

There hadn't been a case in three days, and already Sherlock was going mad. John had been keeping busy at the hospital; plenty of patients had been coming in, seeing as it was summer. More kids were out playing football and rugby, getting themselves hurt in all sorts of ways. It was only in the evenings when John came home did he have to face a headache.

"No, Sherlock," John chided, turning the page of the paper he hadn't gotten the chance to read that morning. "Cold turkey, remember?"

John remembered saying much the same before the Hound of Baskerville case. That day Sherlock had managed to bribe him into revealing the location of his cigarettes, but that didn't seem to be the case this evening. The streets were blissfully quiet (though it was known, for them, to change within seconds at whim).

"John please, at least one." Sherlock's voice was low and pleading, something that John had grown used to.

John folded the paper carefully and laid it on the arm of his chair, stood and made his way into the kitchen. After rummaging in one of the drawers, he came back into the living room and threw a box at where Sherlock lay, curled up on the couch.

"Nicotine patches?" Sherlock grumbled, disappointed.

"You and I both agreed this time, Sherlock," John said, looking down at the man as he fingered with the box of patches. "Cold turkey. You'll get lung cancer, or COPD. I don't want that to happen to you."

"But Joooohhhnnnn-"

"Sherlock, you won't be able to do any more cases if that happens," John argued, kneeling beside him. He ran his fingers through the man's curly brown hair. "And then you'd be truly miserable."

It was several moments before Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh, opening the box of patches and taking one out. He stuck it to the smooth, pale skin of his arm. "There," he grumbled, but John smiled.

"Sherlock," John said, smoothing his hair from his forehead to place a gentle kiss there. "Once you get through this withdrawal, and you'll never have to go through it again."

"Promise?" Sherlock murmured. Despite not having a case, Sherlock hadn't slept the past two nights and he desperately needed it.

"I promise Sherlock," John answered. He leaned down and kissed his lover on his lips. "Now go to sleep." And John ran his fingers through his hair, along his scalp, until he fell asleep.

 


	3. Lessons

**Inspired by[this](http://bookofmagic.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-colouring-406620398) fan art.**

"John, you're holding the bow wrong," Sherlock instructed gently. "Curl your fingers tighter around the neck. If you don't press the strings down hard enough the pitch will be wrong."

After nearly a month of asking, John had finally gotten Sherlock to give him violin lessons. John knew he would never be as good as Sherlock, but maybe, with enough time, he could get close. Sherlock played his violin when he thought, or on the few special occasions that visited the flat at 221B. Christmas and John or Mrs. Hudson's birthday. That was it really.

But there was also the rarer occurrence that came in the midst of the night. John PTSD and nightmares had died down dramatically since he met Sherlock, but the dreams still reared their ugly head, once upon a blue moon. John would wake abruptly, trying to stifle the cry that escaped from his throat, most times to no avail. He would lay there, sweaty and gasping for breath, trying to calm himself down.

And he would hear sweet calming music drift from downstairs, calming his frantic heart and lulling him to sleep once more.

In the times Sherlock would sleep, he was much the same plagued. While the sources of John's night terrors were mostly obvious, Sherlock's were vague and he would never tell. John longed to be able to comfort Sherlock in the same way, but never found the right outlet.

So, here John was, getting lessons from Sherlock with no explanation as to his sudden interest.

"Here, I'll show you," Sherlock said, and John began to relinquish his hold on the violin and bow, ready to give them to the detective. But instead, John felt Sherlock's lean, warm body pressed against the back of his own. Long arms half covered in purple cloth came around, long fingered hands resting on his own and helping him settle the chinrest at the crook of his neck, the bow across the bridge.

"There," Sherlock murmured, and John could feel his breath along the shell his ear. "Now, play an A." Using an index finger, he pressed it on the G string and, with Sherlock's guidance, he carefully guided the bow across said string.

It wasn't exactly a smooth note, with a slight screeching undertone. But it held nonetheless, and Sherlock made a low hum of appreciation. "Good," he praised, his cool breath making John shiver. "Now, play an E."

John really couldn't remember at this point where the hell an E was. Sherlock's voice was deep and honey-like, and John could feel the blush rising up his face to settle heavily at his cheeks. He made a blind guess as to where it was, but he ended up playing a C instead.

"Close," Sherlock murmured, his lips barely grazing John's ear. John's knees began shaking subtly. "This one." His long fingers took John's hand and touched the second string –  _D string,_ John reminded himself – and pulled the bow across the bridge. A perfect, smooth note.

John broke at that noise. He let go of the violin and turned around. His hands settled against Sherlock's cheeks, fingers brushing those cheekbones that Irene Adler wondered if she could cut herself on, and stretched up on his toes to kiss him.

It was only the second time they'd kissed, and the first one John had initiated himself. His cheeks immediately lit up as he pulled away and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock smiled, setting the violin and bow aside, capturing John's lips with his own.

"I think the lesson can wait," he whispered, and John moaned in agreement.

 


	4. Christmas

**Inspired by[this ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/392939136208837258/)fan art. I don't know the artist, but it's not me, and all credit goes to them.**

Just because it snowed in London didn't mean that it became any less busy. Cabs still ran and museums were still open, cafes still served lunch. So this meant that murders still happened just as frequently as during the summer and fall and spring.

However, this year, just like the last, Christmas was without event.

Well, without much event.

Last Christmas, 221B Baker Street had seen a few friends of the worlds' only consulting detective and his companion, John Watson. Mrs. Hudson, of course, Greg Lestrade, and lastly, Molly Hooper. Other than a mishap with Molly Hooper (in which Sherlock was being a right prat), and, of course, the interruption of Irene Adler, the Christmas had gone as well as can be expected with Sherlock involved.

And now, this Christmas, it went much the same, if not better.

The guests were Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and, surprisingly, Anderson. The latter hadn't taken Sherlock's death well at all. In fact, he had refused to believe Sherlock could be dead. (Of course, it had turned out that Sherlock hadn't been dead after all). John had conversed with him on occasion after the incident, and despite Sherlock's animosity towards him, John developed a bit of a friendship with him.

So, despite Sherlock's moaning and griping, he invited Anderson to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock pointedly ignored the man's presence, choosing instead to play carols on his violin at the request of Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade was already a little tipsy from the champagne, and if he recognized the tune, he would (very badly) sing along. Molly spent her time chatting with John, and Mrs. Hudson, sitting in Sherlock's chair while Mycroft sat in John's, talked very little and listened to Sherlock's music.

Anderson sat by himself on the couch, in the corner closest to the door, opting to keep to himself. He didn't feel comfortable here. The last time he had been in the flat had been when he volunteered for the drugs bust. So when Molly asked if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine, and when John offered him punch and fruitcake, he declined politely.

Best not to do anything at all.

But eventually, once the night wound down, Sherlock stopped playing his violin. And that meant his attention was on the people in the room. Anderson kept his head down, fiddling with the hem of his jacket, which he hadn't bothered to take off.

"Anderson, stop fidgeting, you remind me of a child ready to be scolded." Sherlock sat down with a huff on the other end of the couch, only a pillow with England's flag on it between them.

"Sorry," he immediately replied, placing his palms flat on his thighs. He kept his head down.

Though he would never admit it, he did respect Sherlock. In fact, he was envious of his brilliance. He supposed he could consider himself a gullible puppy. Donovan had always been able to string him around behind her. (He had a soft spot for her, even though he was married. He was always eager to impress her). Since she hated Sherlock so much, why not jump on the bandwagon. After all, she spoke to him more than anyone else, so he supposed it was working.

Anderson remembered when Sherlock had 'died'. Or moreover, when he faked his own death. Really, it was his entire fault. And Donovan's. He should never have allowed her to doubt Sherlock. He shouldn't have allowed her to place doubt into his own mind.

He had gone to the consulting detective's grave months after the funeral. It was still set in his mind, that Sherlock just  _couldn't_ be dead. He  _couldn't_ be.

"Um…" He really didn't know what prompted him to show up all of a sudden. Sherlock had never liked him. "Hello. I know I don't come by often. Lestrade works me to the bone." Then he remembered what he had with him. "Oh. Right. I brought you some nicotine patches." He felt around in the pockets of his pants, but didn't feel them there. "Um…" Then around in the pockets of his blazer. "I must have dropped them on my way here, ahaha…" Okay. He was being annoying. At this point Sherlock would be telling him so.

"I guess you want me to… face the other way now… right?" he'd said, his voice oddly choked. And then the tears had started, and he scrubbed them furiously away with the sleeve of his blazer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

And he would never actually able to say he was sorry to Sherlock. Never. Not to his face.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," he said instead, noting with some amusement the skull on the mantle, covered with a Santa Claus hat. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be enjoying her conversation with Mycroft. Lestrade was passed out in the kitchen. John was half asleep in the desk chair and Molly had bid them goodbye before Sherlock had finished playing.

"You don't have to be, you know," was Sherlock's reply. Before Anderson could comment, he continued. "You don't have to be sorry. I understand, and I'm not angry." A long silence passed between them.

"Merry Christmas, Anderson."

 


	5. Misery

Ever since Sherlock's death, John had returned to the weekly habit of visiting his therapist. His limp had returned, so he had to go out and buy a cane to replace the one he had thrown away months ago. It stayed in his hand, or beside his chair or bed, ready to be picked up and used.

And he was alone again. Alone in London.

It was like Sherlock never happened. There were the incredibly rare occasions, when he could honestly think that Sherlock was just a figment of his PTSD affected mind. But then there were all the other times, when he would see someone with a long dark coat, or with their collar turned up against the wind or rain. And when he went home and could see the evidence within 221B Baker Street itself that Sherlock had been there, that Sherlock had lived. That Sherlock had died.

The experiments in the cabinets and the fridge, from human eyes in the microwave to human thumbs in the drawers. The laptop, sitting open but powered off on the table, surrounded by books and case papers. The skull sitting on the mantel.  _Friend of mine,_ Sherlock had said. The stupid yellow smiling face on the wall with bullet holes in it.

" _What the_ hell _are you doing?"_

" _Bored."_

The one time John had dared to go down the hall into Sherlock's room, he felt like he was going to choke on his own grief.

It smelled  _just like_ him. Like the rain and London streets, with the faint undertone of cigarette smoke that was barely there. Nicotine patches sat in a heap on the bedside table, not knowing they would never be used. There was the blue robe that hung at the back of his door. His bed was in disarray, though he hardly ever slept. But Sherlock wasn't tidy, so it stood to reason that, in the rare occasions in which he did sleep there, the bed was never remade.

Everything in the flat was just the way Sherlock had left it.

In fact, John half expected to hear Sherlock's voice, asking him for tea or for a pen, or telling him he needed cigarettes because he was tired of waiting for a case. Or maybe even to hear the violin, playing the same sad tune as the incident with Irene Adler.

_God how I miss you, Sherlock._

And now John was back in that room, in one of the rare times when the grief was too much to hold in. It was just too easy to cry and collapse onto Sherlock's bed, burying his face into the pillow and pretending that Sherlock wasn't dead. That he didn't jump off the roof of St. Bart's.

But John had heard the sadness in Sherlock's voice, saw the blood on the concrete, felt for Sherlock's pulse.

There hadn't been one.

" _He's my friend, he's my friend…" Please Sherlock don't leave me._

_He's my friend. He's my best friend._

"I love you, Sherlock…"

Except there was no one in that room to hear him.

 


	6. Careful

Sherlock had a bad habit of running faster than John could keep up. It wasn't because John was a slow runner or anything like that, but it was because Sherlock's legs were so much longer. Sometimes, John would only see the tail end of Sherlock's coat whipping around a corner and that was all he had to tell him that he was, indeed, behind him.

Sometimes, John assumed Sherlock, so focused on the killer they were chasing through the streets, forgot that there  _were_  other murderers in London. And Sherlock, especially Sherlock, was on every one of their bad sides.

Be as it may, Sherlock was always careful to make sure John didn't fall  _too_  far behind. He occasionally glanced over his shoulder to make sure the ex-army doctor was there.

Except tonight.

This killer – a man in his mid-thirties named Richard Hughes – had murdered three women, two men and a child, along with robbing a multitude of shops and homes. He had been extremely careful, and that had certainly concerned the authorities, but all Lestrade had to say was 'serial killer' and Sherlock was all over it.

And now, here they were, typical February night, racing through twisting streets and dark alleyways trying to avoid ice and chasing a killer.

Sherlock was overexcited about this one, and John knew that, this time, Sherlock wouldn't be checking over his shoulder periodically. The killer had a gun, but so did John and Sherlock needed that. Sherlock may have the mind of a brilliant philosopher, but he was still human and a bullet could still kill him. And that was what John was truly afraid of. So John made sure he kept up, even though the cold air burned his lungs and made his eyes water.

One moment, he's watching the back of Sherlock's coat and the next he's staring at the dark sky, all the air rushing out of his lungs as he hit the ground hard.  _Damn ice._ And he'd hit his head pretty hard, too. Upon checking he didn't find blood and wiggling his toes in his shoes made sure that he hadn't broken anything, so he sat up.

And was faced with another dilemma.

Sherlock was nowhere in sight. It was just John and the ice and a lonely street lit by a few yellow lights.  _Shit._ "Sherlock!" Full of anger. John stood up and took off again. They couldn't have gotten far. He had only been down… what, ten, fifteen seconds? But after running down a few blocks with no sight nor sound of the consulting detective, he felt dread fill his stomach.

Even if Sherlock got him cornered somewhere, he didn't have a gun and Richard did. It would only take a single, well-aimed shot to-

And John heard it. Three gunshots rang out into the still winter night somewhere off to his left. "Sherlock!" Full of panic now. Taking off again, making sure no more ice was in his path, he rounded the corner to see what he had been dreading.

Sherlock on the ground, holding his leg, the killer running away. John fired a few more bad shots at him, but he was too far off and it was too dark to see clearly. Besides, Sherlock was hit. Sherlock was bleeding, probably dying.

Flicking his guns safety on, he dropped to his knees at Sherlock's side. Leg. He'd been hit in the right leg, upper thigh. Tourniquet. Quickly, John ripped off Sherlock's belt and tied it around his upper leg to stop the bleeding, his phone already to his ear and calling Lestrade.

"John, where the bloody hell have you run off to?" was the first thing Lestrade said as soon as he answered. John took his attention off Sherlock for a moment to look around for street signs, but he saw none.

"Just track my phone," John said in a rush. "And hurry. Sherlock's bleeding. Richard Hughes is heading east from our location." With that, he managed to get Sherlock's scarf off and press it against the still bleeding wound.

Sherlock was panting shallowly, whether from pain or the chase, he didn't know. He laughed hoarsely, which confused John, but before he could question it, Sherlock spoke. "I'm glad no one saw that," he murmured.

John grimaced. "What, you being a complete idiot and running off without me?" John guessed for him.

"No, not that," Sherlock replied, laughing again. "You ripping my clothes off in a darkened street. People might talk." It took John a moment to get it, and when he did, he was laughing too, despite how angry and afraid he was.

"Sherlock, seriously," John said once he had recovered his resolve. He pressed a little bit harder down on Sherlock's leg. "You need to be careful. One day, it might not be your leg. It might be your chest, or your head or an artery and, Sherlock, you won't…" He trailed off, heaving a sigh. "Sherlock, I love you and I care about your safety. I care whether or not you eat and sleep when you need to. I care if you get shot chasing a killer. So please, from now on… be careful, okay?"

Sherlock blinked up at him in an almost bemused way, before he lay back on the ground. "Of course, John," he replied, his breath ghosting from his mouth and swirling away.

"Thank you," John sighed, and heard police sirens coming closer. Looking down the street, he saw them on the horizon.

"And John?"

"Hm?"

"I love you, too."


	7. Guy Fawkes Day

It was the beginning of November, only the fifth, and a chill was already in the air. Ever since the sun had set that night, cold had swept over the city. John Watson, however, was pleasantly warm. He was bundled up in his warm coat, one hand in his pocket and the other clasping Sherlock's. They were along the Thames, hand in hand, merely observing all the children in Guy Fawkes masks with sparklers in their hands, running ahead of their parents despite their elders' grievances.

The London Eye towered above the both of them, even though they were quite a ways away. They were walking beside the Thames, nearing the time for the fireworks to begin. And this was the first actual date they had been on in months (only because John didn't think that, even when they went out to dinner, if it was on a case, it couldn't be considered a date).

Last year, they were in Norwich on another serial killer case during the fifth and had missed the fireworks. But then again, last year they weren't dating yet. John always did love fireworks. It invoked in him some sort of childish wonder, something he was comfortable with Sherlock realizing. So this was their date. Going along the Thames to watch the fireworks together.

They sat on a bench down the sidewalk from the Founder's Arms, a pub on the banks of the Thames near the Millennium Bridge. The Conference and Events Centre was just across the water, and the lit dome of St Paul's Cathedral was in the distance. It was nearing eight o'clock, the due time for the fireworks. Sherlock and John's hands were still intertwined between them.

The fireworks finally sailed into the air ten minutes late. Not that it really mattered. When John was with Sherlock, no minute was ever boring. And that had been true ever since that first day, in St. Bart's. John's interest had immediately been peaked from the moment Sherlock asked him "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

And it took a dozen girlfriends and a failed marriage built on lies and mistrust to bring him back to 221B Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes, his best friend and now his lover (because boyfriend just didn't seem like the right word).

They screamed into the night sky and shattered the darkness in bursts of vibrant reds and blues, greens and yellows. Children along the river cheered when they began, and their gasps of astonishment and awe reached John's ears. John's eyes eventually tore away from the fireworks still booming in the sky to Sherlock's profile. The fireworks reflected in his iridescent eyes, casting shadows under his sharp cheekbones and under his mouth.

Sherlock suddenly met his gaze and John flushed when he was caught staring. But Sherlock merely smiled and leaned over a little ways. His free hand caressed John's cheek in such a delicate way that it made the doctor shiver.

"Happy Guy Fawkes Day, John," Sherlock murmured, just before kissing him. John's fingers brushed through those brunette curls and he smiled as Sherlock pulled away, their foreheads still touching.

"Happy Guy Fawkes Day, my Sherlock," John whispered back. "I love you."

"As I love you, my John."

 


	8. Almost Lover

As far as John knew, Sherlock had deleted a lot of things. Things the consulting detective deemed unnecessary to solve cases. His mind palace could only be so big, and the thing was bound to run out of space, so it made some sense not to keep useless facts. John, too, forgot things he read in the paper because he didn't think they had any relevance to his life now, nor in the future.

But to find out Sherlock deleted everything he knew of the universe – which was primary school stuff – was something John found blog worthy. And though that had pissed Sherlock off, he was in the middle of a case, so he didn't sulk for too long.

But out of all the things Sherlock deleted, some of the stuff he bothered to remember surprised John. Things that he wouldn't remember for anyone else, such as John's birthday and the way he liked his coffee and tea. Or that John preferred certain songs on his violin over others, and those were the ones he played most often.

John realized that, had he not been John, Sherlock wouldn't have bothered to remember the day of his birth or how he took his coffee. And he would certainly play whatever the hell he wanted to on his violin at whatever time of the day (or night) he saw fit. But because John was John, and John was Sherlock's best friend – not just friend, but  _best_ friend – John had these liberties.

In truth, John had felt a certain amount of pity that day he had asked Sherlock to be his best man. That Sherlock genuinely didn't  _know_  he was John's best friend had made him want more than anything to take the consulting detective into his arms and hug him. But out of respect for them both, he restrained it.

But at the wedding, hearing all the things Sherlock said to him – about him, he hadn't been able to stop himself. And though he had warned Mary to stop him should he try, not even she stopped him. And when he hugged Sherlock – the man who had saved him a hundred times and damned him a hundred more – he found himself struck with tears.

Because though he did love Mary, he loved his best friend – Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective – even more. He was marrying the wrong person it seemed.

But this affection between the two of them would always go on, but it would always seem that they were just mates, just flat mates that were best friends with an inseparable bond. Because Sherlock was the man John was willing to kill for, was willing to die for, was willing to chase men through cold London streets for.

And John was the man that Sherlock would kill for, would die for (because he already had, Sherlock had explained the situation regarding Moriarty and his faked death), was willing to face against a man that always seemed one step ahead for (because Moriarty would never truly be gone).

John loved Sherlock, but he also loved Mary.

Sherlock loved John, and no one else could ever take his place.


	9. Birthday

The date was January the sixth, and snow had settled heavily over London, like a blanket, Mrs. Hudson would say, except not so cozy. John was already at the hospital, sitting in his chair and spinning in lazy, slow circles. It wasn't busy today; not at all. He didn't have one patient for the entire allotted time he had to work.

So when the receptionist rung him and said he had a visitor, he had been obviously curious. Had Sherlock come to see him? No, that wasn't possible. Or was it? Standing up and stretching under used legs, he made his way outside his office to the corridor.

And there waited a familiar face.

"Mycroft." His greeting was short, but it wasn't cold. An incline of the head showed the man that. Just like the first day they became acquainted, he was leaning on his umbrella dressed in an immaculate suit and overcoat.

"John." Mycroft's greeting was much the same, though had anyone been watching, they would never be able to tell the two were somewhat close friends. "At work, are we?"

"Well, of course, I was scheduled to work weeks ago," John stated, though Mycroft probably already knew this. Occupying a 'minor' position in the British government meant that the other Holmes brother had more than a few tricks up his sleeve. "Why are you here?"

"Just came to be a bearer of news, whether it be good or bad is left entirely up to you." Mycroft swung his umbrella around on his palm, only to plant it back on the ground. "Today is my brother's birthday."

"Sherlock's?" John questioned stupidly.

"Of course, how many brothers do you think I have?" Mycroft, replied, dryly.  _Just like his brother._  "My reasoning for telling you this, however, is because, as always, Sherlock does become rather… reclusive during these times. I'm worried for him. Do be a dear and look after him for me?"

"Why not just put cameras in his room?" John half-joked. "I'm sure that would be a lot easier than tracking me down."

"No, that would be too obvious," Mycroft said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "He would notice that the dust motes had been displaced on the bedside table."

"Hm. True."

And with that, Mycroft Holmes had left just as quickly as he had come, and just as unexpectedly.

Once the afternoon was over, the sun still above the horizon, John climbed into a cab bound for Baker Street. Since Mycroft's unexpected visit earlier that morning, John had fretted over what he should get the consulting detective, but had come no closer to a conclusion than he had hours ago.

Sherlock wasn't a man who treasured earthly possessions. He considered his own body just a taxi for his mind and thought breathing was boring, and even tedious. So John really had no clue where to even begin. He had plenty of scarves, and his coat was far from being needed to be replaced.

End conclusion, by the time John got back to Baker Street, he still had no idea. Mrs. Hudson met him at the door, immediately voicing her concern for him. "He's been shut up in his room all day!" she fret. "Won't even come out for tea."

John told her not to worry, that he was going to take care of it, but he really didn't know how quite yet. After making her sit and calm down, he headed upstairs.

"Sherlock?" John said aloud, rapping his knuckles against the door to his room. He heard no sound from within, so he proceeded to go ahead and open the door. Sherlock was curled up on his bed, on top of the strewn bed sheets, with just his blue dressing gown wrapped around himself.

"It'd be nice if you were to knock," Sherlock said, without moving to look at him.

"I did Sherlock," John sighed. "You didn't answer so-"

"So you took that as a consent for entry," the consulting detective grumbled, but it didn't honestly sound like he was angry. In fact, it sounded as though Sherlock was grateful for John's intrusion into his loneliness.

John sat down on the edge of his best friend's bed, putting his hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, Mycroft came by and saw me today at work," he said. Sherlock grunted in reply. "He said today was your birthday. You shut yourself up and won't talk to anyone, so…" Still, Sherlock said nothing. "Sherlock, we've been together for seven months now, and you didn't even tell me today was your birthday, and now you don't want to talk to me. I need to know why."

The room settled into silence for the longest time. "Because I don't care about my birthday," Sherlock finally answered. "Everyone wants to sing songs and eat cake and have me blow out candles. I'm getting older with every day. Sooner or later I won't be able to go on cases anymore, John. My eyesight will go, or my joints or my hearing. I could get Alzheimer's, or arthritis. And what happens when I can't work anymore, John? What happens when I can't go on cases anymore? What will I do then? No one will have use of me anymore. Lestrade won't need me, and Mycroft won't have to be watching me anymore. I won't have anyone."

John huffed a laugh. "Sherlock, look at me." After a moment, Sherlock rolled onto his back so his iridescent eyes could meet John's. "Even when you're old and you can't run all over London anymore, I won't let you be alone." With a smile, he leaned down and kissed Sherlock's lips, running his fingers through soft, curled hair.

"Sherlock, when you're old, I will be, too," he assured, his forehead pressed against the detectives. "We'll be old and feeble together, if it should come to that. And if you get Alzheimer's and can't remember anything, I'll remind you anytime you forget something. And if you get arthritis, you can have a cane, just like I did when we first met."

John smiled, and Sherlock almost did. John could tell. "I love you, Sherlock. And no matter how old we both get, I'll still love you." Sherlock smiled then, relief evident in his gaze.

"Happy birthday, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I love you."


	10. Roses

There were a lot of different occasions that all of Britain marked as being special. New Years, Easter, Valentine's Day, Christmas. They were dates that the occupants of Baker Street always celebrated together (maybe except for Valentine's Day. If John had a girlfriend, they would go somewhere together. If not, John would hang around Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson).

Every day was always a special occasion it seemed, when Sherlock was involved. There was always either something dangerous or incredibly disgusting going on with the consulting detective. Experiments were always in the kitchen. John was surprised Lestrade hadn't decided to condemn it.

But now there was nothing dangerous or disgusting going on now. Mrs. Hudson was the one who had cleaned out the kitchen, as tedious as that process was.

Sherlock had jumped off a roof. Sherlock had died. Sherlock was buried, six feet under the ground.

Today was Valentine's Day. The first one that had passed since Sherlock had said goodbye. The first one since Sherlock lay bleeding onto the sidewalk.

John didn't go to work that day, claiming he was feeling ill, and they believed him. They knew he was ill, just not with any sort of illness. It seemed almost everyone knew that John loved Sherlock before John himself did. Mrs. Hudson had said it from the very beginning. But John neither confirmed nor denied their claims, and made no such comment on the matter.

He went out to the market, the same market where he had a run in with the chip and pin machine, and found a dozen, fresh and beautiful, red roses. "Getting those for your girlfriend?" a man said, gesturing to the flowers in his hand.

John looked at them, to the thorns on the soft green stems, to the red petals with beads of water on them. He smiled sadly. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Something like that." After paying for them, he took a cab to the graveyard, the roses cradled delicately in his lap like a precious newborn child.

Sherlock's grave was exactly as he had left it. Dark stone with golden engraved letters. 'Sherlock Holmes'. It wasn't enough for John. They had left out 'my best friend, the wisest, loneliest man I ever knew. The one who stole my heart and kept it in his pocket.'

John laid the flowers at the base of the gravestone, kneeling down in front of it. He brushed away leftover snow from days previous, that hadn't melted since then.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock," he managed to say before he choked up. He swallowed heavily to regain some composure, but was unable to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks. "I miss you, and I love you. And I'm so sorry I never told you that."

John let his fingers brush against the deep ruts that made out Sherlock's name.

"I love you so much, Sherlock," he gasped, and suddenly couldn't take it anymore.

If anyone had come by that day, they would have seen a lonely man with his back against a gravestone, holding roses in his arms (how desperately he wished those roses were something – someone else), weeping with abandon and silently begging to no one to let his best friend, the man he loved, to not be dead.


	11. Love is Not a Disadvantage

Sherlock had never seen John Watson cry.

Even on their first case together –  _that color of pink, clearly in the news_  – with a woman lying in front of him, dead before her time, struck by a serial killers scythe, he didn't mourn for her. Or on their second, when Soo Lin was killed by Zhi Zhu and they were unable to save her. He may have mourned, but he didn't cry.

Or on the third, when bombs were being strapped to people, and an innocent old woman died because of poorly chosen words. Or on the fourth, or the fifth, or the sixth.

Oh, the sixth. The great Sherlock Holmes, apparently going up in smoke by his own doing. John was frustrated, angry, and sad.

But Sherlock didn't think he cried.

He had to keep the impression that he was dead, after all. Eyes wide open, blood covering his face and the sidewalk beneath him, ball under the armpit to stop the pulse. His vision blurred and he wanted to blink but he couldn't and he damn well wouldn't.

It was hearing John that nearly broke him.

" _He's my friend."_

He, Sherlock bloody Holmes, the sociopath, be someone's friend? Just saying those words in a sentence together felt wrong and made some people shudder. Sherlock could only hope that when it was all over and John was safe again, when Sherlock could come home and explain, that John would still think that. He would still think Sherlock is his friend.

One month, one year, then two and almost three he spent destroying the spider's web laid out by Moriarty. There may have been stragglers, but the majority was burning down.

He came back to John, and John was trying so hard not to cry. He was angry, Sherlock could see that. But he was sad, if he was crying, wasn't he? Well, not crying, but Sherlock could see the tears collecting in his eyes, threatening to fall if he so much as blinked, hear the lump in John's throat that he talked around.

" _Do you have any idea what you've done?"_

He only tried to save him. He promised John that day two years ago that he'd be safe. John was outraged. Beyond angry, and if the bruise on his jaw and the bloody nose were anything to go by, would probably be for a long time.

It wasn't until much, much later that John actually said he missed him so much it hurt.

John was shorter than Sherlock by a good few inches, but it didn't stop him from pulling Sherlock down and hugging him so tightly the scars on his back hurt.

John had a scar on his shoulder from Afghanistan. He had a very faint one on his knee from when he fell playing as a child. He had one under his chin from where he nicked himself shaving some time ago.

Sherlock had scars on his back, his shoulders, his thighs, his calves, the bottoms of his feet.

It took a long time for him to actually  _show_ John. And by then, they were beyond friends, beyond best friends. They were something new and something beautiful and Sherlock never thought love could be any kind of advantage before.

 _This is what I endured,_ he would tell John that day, voice low and tiny shivers racing down his spine at the soldier's feather-light touches on each of the scars.  _This is what I endured to keep you safe, to keep you okay. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I couldn't, too many people were watching. It was planned, it was planned, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_

He kept babbling until John's arms wrapped around his waist and he pressed a soft, tender kiss to the scar on his left shoulder. Though not made by a gunshot, it was almost a mirror image of John's.

He was cold and John was warm and he was ruined and John was perfect and John was light and John was  _everything –_

He didn't realize he was speaking aloud until he was being shushed by gentle fingers and then gentle lips.

"You're beautiful and you're perfect and wonderful and I know and I understand. You don't need to be sorry. I love you Sherlock I love you."

And it wasn't that much later, as Sherlock traced the band around his finger, John by his side, did he finally realize that love wasn't a disadvantage.

It was the greatest thing of all.


	12. False Widow

"Sherlock Holmes, you have chased countless criminals through London streets, many of whom have had guns trained right at you and you are afraid of this?"

It was a hot afternoon in London, right at the tail end of July, and the windows had been opened to let the cool breeze from outside into the flat. And more than just a breeze had made its way into the flat, one that currently had a consulting detective curled up on the couch, carefully keeping his eyes on said object.

It was a small brown spider, barely visible against the brown floors. John paid it no mind, but rather, had his hands on his hips and was shaking his head, exasperated. The bravest man he has ever known, afraid of a spider!

"It's a black widow, John," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off the arachnid for one second as he addressed his blogger. "They are considered the most venomous spider in North America. Their venom is reported to be 15 times stronger than a rattlesnake's, one bite can-"

He stopped cold as he watched John bend down and urge the spider onto his finger, standing up with it on the end, an eyebrow raised. "This isn't a black widow, Sherlock," he said, exasperated. "It's a false widow, you dolt. You remember the school that call off classes because they found one? It was just up the street."

Sherlock still didn't move, so John sighed and took the spider to the window, leaving it on the sill and waiting for it to crawl away from the inside. "Steatoda nobilis," Sherlock said, plainly.

"Yes, Sherlock," John sighed, shutting the windows. He'd had enough spiders for one day. "Not a black widow. They're only in the Southern part of Europe, remember?" He sighed, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's lack of response. He was still curled on the couch. Moving across the room, he sank down on the couch beside him, his arm fitting snuggly around Sherlock's shoulders.

"So… not dangerous?" Sherlock said, and John felt like laughing. First the solar system, now this? You'd think, at some point, spider venom would have something to do with a case. But then again, he may file away everything on every kind of spider tonight instead of sleeping, and spend days on end bent over a petri dish studying each venom.

"Of course, not Sherl," he murmured. He was still tired. Last night had taken him a while to go to sleep (thanks to a subconsciously-seductive consulting-detective), and this morning he'd been awoken rather early by the same Holmes brother who didn't know when people needed to sleep.

It was quiet for a long time, the soft chatter of pedestrians on the street and cabs on the road drifting in through the slightly parted windows. Then Sherlock, who had leaned into John's side, said, "If you tell Gavin about this, I'll make your death look like an accident."

"Greg, Sherlock."

"Or Donovan. Or Mycroft. Oh for the love of god, not Mycroft."

"I won't Sherlock," John reassured him quietly, and it became near silent once more. After nearly five minutes (a record, for Sherlock), the consulting detective sprung up, grabbed his laptop and settled in once more.

"What are you doing, Sherl?"

"Researching venomous spiders, their locations and their place in science." John smiled at that as Sherlock began searching away.

He knew his husband so well.


	13. Laundry

There comes a time, every once in a while, when the washing machine and dryer in the basement would be turned on again, filled with some jumpers and some t-shirts and socks, to be washed, dried and folded again. There was also every once in a while when it wasn't Mrs. Hudson taking the trip to her boys' rooms and retrieving the clothes piling up in a basket.

There was also, every once in a blue moon, a time when John would take off work when Sherlock didn't have a case and dedicate the day to cleaning the flat until the floor were polished.

His day would begin early. He would remove himself ever so carefully from their bed so as not to rouse his sleeping husband, take a shower and then change into some clothes he didn't mind getting covered in sweat, maybe some bleach, and, quite possibly, some substances that one would normally find in a morgue or laboratory.

It would begin the same way as always. He would work on the kitchen first and foremost, since he and Sherlock had both made somewhat of an effort to eat dinner together at the table instead of in the living room. And now, since the upstairs bedroom was no longer needed to sleep in, Sherlock had somewhere to experiment that wasn't the kitchen. (Sure, they had to get a mini-fridge and cheap microwave, but rather that than have a severed head with their food.) The dishes would be cleaned and put back into the semi-organized cabinets, the counters and table would be scrubbed into submission and then the floor.

By that time, John would have worked himself up an appetite. He would make tea, coffee, biscuits and some frozen scones up and take them into the bedroom, rousing Sherlock and eating with him before returning to the kitchen to clean the new mess up. Sherlock would wander out of bed and, once he had woken up fully, would wish John good morning with a kiss before starting to help. Sometimes he would go upstairs to clean up his "laboratory", and sometimes he would start working in the living room and try to organize the mess of the desk they both shared.

Most times, when that was a lost cause, Sherlock would go to the bookshelves and start alphabetizing the dusty tomes there. And John would eventually join them and they would return to the desk and try to make some sense of it.

And once the kitchen and living room were done, they would go down to Speedy's for a quick bite and then return.

Sherlock would go to his lab upstairs and John would begin on their bedroom. Not too hard, since it normally stayed relatively clean. He would make the bed and hang up all the blazers thrown over the closet door, readjust the frame periodic table of elements on the wall that had been unbalanced, make sure there was plenty of toothpaste and shampoo in the bathroom. And in the midst of it all he would make a grocery list.

And only once or twice has he ever caught Sherlock upstairs preforming an experiment instead of cleaning, and that had been resolved rather quickly. The lab would be clean and with Sherlock downstairs again and the bedroom finished, John would start on the laundry.

This is where today took a turn in a different direction.

Seeing as Sherlock had forsaken his usual suit getup for something more suited to cleaning, John figured he would just wash those clothes as well, seeing as (today anyway) they were covered in some sort of disgusting, mysterious green liquid that was beginning to harden into goop that smelled absolutely foul.

"Sherlock, get those filthy clothes off, I'm going to wash those, too," John said as he grabbed a few more misplaced socks from the floor of the closet. "Hopefully whatever that stuff is it won't hurt my jumpers…" he grumbled under his breath as he heard fabric slipping away from skin. And as he reached back to get the clothes from Sherlock, he was faced with a… very interesting sight.

Sherlock had taken off his clothes, yes, but he hadn't put any more on. What was more than that, though, is that he had stripped completely naked.

John tried to stop his eyes from roaming his husbands gorgeous body as he took the clothes and wadded them up to place them in the basket, but he couldn't help himself. Sherlock was rarely ever that bold when it came to being naked in any one place, especially after the two years he spent disassembling Moriarty's network. Now, his skin was covered, but not ruined, with scars of all shapes and sizes and from all different kinds of things. And when he had first seen each and every one of them, John had committed himself to kissing every one and telling Sherlock that it didn't make him anything less than beautiful, and that he loved him.

And damn it all if Sherlock wasn't actually looking  _smug_ right now.

"My, John," he said, as if everything was completely normal. "What kind of look is that?" And he came close enough until his hips were brushing against John's, and his nose was buried in the crook of John's neck. As his hot, wet tongue came to glide across John's collar bone, John allowed his hands to firmly grasp his husband's hips.

"Sherlock," he murmured as said consulting detective used his teeth to pull at the skin of John's neck. "I've got laundry to do."

"It can wait until later," Sherlock breathed, his breath hot and moist against John's skin.

"Mrs. Hudson is using it later," John argued back, but had (almost) already accepted his fate.

"Then it can wait until tomorrow."

John gave in, pulling Sherlock tight against him and claiming his husband's lips with his own. A tongue swept across a full bottom lip and Sherlock opened his mouth with a soft gasp as John deepened the kiss with a single movement.

Eventually the two of them stumbled back against the freshly made bed, Sherlock being firmly kissed into the pillows along the headboard. "You're right," John panted between kisses. "Laundry can wait an hour or two." He grinned. "Or maybe three."

Sherlock grinned as well, knowing he had won.

And then all thoughts of winning any sort of game flew out of his mind as John proceeded to kiss him senseless again. By the end of this thorough make-out session, John had managed, once again, to make Sherlock forget the name of even the simplest molecular structures and every kind of tobacco ash there was. The color pink seemed to have some sort of vague significance but it hardly mattered anymore. John made his way down Sherlock's jaw, down his neck and across his prominent collar bone until he reached a certain point on his shoulder that made him stop.

When Sherlock finally gained some sort of sense to try and find out why he stopped, he turned his head to see John staring at the star-shaped scar on his shoulder, just one of the many scars he had gained in the two, horrible years he had been away from John.

And he watched as John kissed it reverently, one hand cradling his shoulder like it was made of glass and the other resting over his heart, feeling the erratic heartbeat slow into a steady, calming one.

"You're the world's only consulting detective," he whispered against that scar, one that so closely mirrored his. "You're the world's only Sherlock Holmes. And I'm so glad you're mine."


End file.
